


By Any Other Name

by Systemic



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Coming Out, Gen, No Beta We Die Like Champions, Nonbinary Kozume Kenma, Yamamoto is a Good Dude, their friendship is so pure actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:07:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29178465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Systemic/pseuds/Systemic
Summary: Kenma and Tora talk nicknames.
Relationships: Kozume Kenma & Yamamoto Taketora
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36





	By Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

> Happy HQ Trans Week!! This is my entry for day 2, _Coming Out_. I'm a little late, but hey, better that than never, right? 
> 
> I don't think any cws are necessary for this one but please let me know in the comments if you think there is!

“Oi, Kyanma! Can I use the purple controller?” Yamamoto’s gravelly voice carries down the hall from where he sits in Kenma’s media room, admiring the half-dozen game systems lined up on shelves. The systems aren’t a surprise in the least, but the level of organization in the house always is. A college kid, living neat and tidy? Unheard of - at least in his experience. 

“No,” comes the deadpan reply as Kenma shuffles back into the room bearing a bag of chips and two peach sodas. He plucks said purple controller out of Tora’s hands and replaces it with a can, as though to placate, and pointedly ignores the pout leveled in his direction while he plops into his own chair. 

“Stingy,” Tora grumbles, half-hearted, and reaches for the royal blue controller instead. It goes with his outfit anyways; black sweats cling loosely to his lower half while a fitted blue athletic shirt adorns the top. He’s bulkier than he was in high school and the thin fabric does little to cover the work he’s put into his physique since joining the pro circuit. 

“I’m feeding you, aren’t I?” Kenma asks, still deadpan, but the snark is detectable in his tone - at least to Tora, who’s heard it a million times before. 

“I’m not sure chips count.” 

“So don’t eat ‘em.” 

“Kyanma!” 

Kenma fights off a grin at the dramatic wail and tosses the bag of chips at Yamamoto’s head, not surprised when the other man catches them. They both huff a laugh before settling into their seats and cracking open their drinks. The old-timey illustration style of Cuphead appears on the projector screen and Kenma does the work of pulling up their save file while the grainy, big band music filters in through the speakers. 

Where Tora has filled in since high school, Kenma is - comparatively - almost wasting away, muscle mass evaporating without the imposed conditioning regime. His angles have all gone soft, though it’s hard to tell anyways in his bulky, black pullover. Tora notes with an affectionate grin the bright red Nekoma sweatpants his friend still wears, knowing full well that the red number 2 jersey must be somewhere special nearby. 

Sentimental motherfuckers, the both of them.

They’re four levels in when Kenma speaks, tone low and soft but tighter than usual, like some part of the message is a strain. “Why do you call me that?”

Tora squints and lifts an eyebrow, unintentionally sneering as he attempts a mid-air somersault. He is, notably, not as good at this game as Kenma is, not that anyone is surprised. “Call you what?” 

“Kyanma.” 

“Uhhh,” Yamamoto drawls, the twisting of his facial features getting worse as he attempts both thought and button mashing at the same time. “Because it’s funny, I guess?” 

“Oh.” 

There’s a moment where they both fall silent and although that doesn’t typically make him uncomfortable, Tora feels tension winding in his chest. He gets hit for the third time that level and sighs, defeated, relaxing back into his chair since he’s out of lives for that run. “Do you not want me to call you that?” he asks after a second, unsure, and finally glances Kenma’s way. 

Even when he’s playing a complicated game, even when he’s focused or frustrated, it’s not unusual for Kenma’s face to be relaxed and nearly blank save a slight furrow in his brow. But now? His expression is drawn, brows pinched and lips pressed tightly together, and it takes his friend off-guard. 

“It’s not that,” he murmurs, non-committal, and the tension in Tora’s chest gets worse. He looks down at his pale pink can of soda and thinks, feeling suddenly thrust into a serious topic that he doesn’t understand. 

“Is it…” he starts, then stops, because what the fuck, actually? “What is it?” There’s no accusal in his tone as he looks up at Kenma, just honest confusion. 

Kenma finishes the level - unsurprising, he’s probably already beat the game once - and lets the victory screen play, controller in his lap. His hands stay curled around it, tight against the purple plastic, and his eyes sink down to the floor. 

“What if I asked you to call me something else?” Kenma’s voice comes out quieter than usual, almost too low to be heard over the music, and Yamamoto leans in a little closer so that he can hear better. 

“Something… besides Kyanma?” he asks, confusion renewed, and tilts his head.

“Or besides ‘Kenma’.” 

The reply sits heavy between them with weight that Tora knows he doesn’t fully comprehend. This isn’t just a question about stupid nicknames. His brain is the one muscle that he leaves dormant a little too often, never having been one to do puzzles or seek intellectual enrichment outside of volleyball plays, and it takes him a second to catch up with the conversation. 

“I mean, yeah,” he says and then flinches with his whole face, nose and eyes scrunched up at his own ineptitude.  _ What the fuck?  _ he thinks at himself and takes a breath before trying again. “Or I guess I mean, I’ll call you whatever you ask me to, man. You’re my friend.” 

Typically fierce eyes soften with concern when he looks up again, observing the dip in Kenma’s shoulders and the sullenness of his expression. Tora never thought he’d miss his typical neutrality, but Kenma looking  _ sad  _ is something he could go the rest of his life without, probably. 

“I think I want to go by they/them pronouns,” Kenma says after another moment and tips his head downward, looking squarely at the controller in his-- in  _ their  _ lap, stroking a thumb nervously along its shell. 

Realization dawns on Tora in stages; his brain processes one at a time. It takes a full second for him to feel like he can speak without saying something stupid. 

“Okay,” he says, a little proud of how firm he keeps his voice, and pushes his lips up at the edges in a gentle smile. “I can do that, sure.” 

Kenma’s lower lip quivers and for a second, Tora thinks he’s still managed to say something monumentally stupid. A moment later, they scrub their sweater-covered wrist against their eyes and sniffle. When it comes away again, they’re still looking down, but their mouth is hiked up at one side in a lop-sided smile. The sight finally eases the tension in Yamamoto’s chest and he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. 

“Thanks, Tora.”

“Yeah, my du-- my  _ bud, _ ” he catches himself and reaches over to give Kenma an affectionate little bop on the shoulder with his knuckles before reaching for his controller again. Kenma laughs, a breath through their nose paired with a suppressed smile, and Tora lets himself breathe easy while the next level is pulled up. 

Half-way through, he asks, “Can I still call you Kyanma?” 

Kenma can’t hide the grin that presses hard into their cheeks. “Yeah, you can still call me Kyanma.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! I love these two a lot and I hope you do too. 
> 
> Comments fuel me. :D I yell about things on [twitter](https://twitter.com/SystemicWrites) if u want to join me.


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